Blood and Tears
by coffee-ink-fire
Summary: Ten years after Galbatorix was defeated, and Murtagh is still an outcast, still hiding in the shadows, looking after Thorn and himself. That is, of course, until he happens upon a girl, whose past is even more haunting than his.


**Chapter 1**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the Inheritance Cycle or any of the characters/places from it.

**Warnings: **Violence, possible trigger warnings.

* * *

><p>"Girl! Where are you?"<p>

The girl quivered in the stables, ducking down slightly in case her master saw her. Fortunately, he didn't come as far as the stables, so she would be alright for the time being. Her heart was beating in her ears, and her whole body shook.

She didn't know what to do; if she went to him right away, she'd be beaten for not having his dinner ready. If she waited it could be worse, but if he was drunk enough, he'd forget later on, and she wouldn't be punished at all. She weighed the two options carefully. Was he drunk enough to justify hiding?

For as long as she could remember, the girl had been a slave. Her master never bothered to name her; she'd never experienced the love and warmth of family. If she hurt herself, she either suffered or tried to fix it herself; if she couldn't do something her master asked, she either learned fast, or received a beating. The kingdom ruled it illegal to buy or sell slaves, but the long-exploited loophole was that it wasn't illegal to be in possession of them. As a result, you could own slaves, so long as you weren't caught buying or selling them. In fact, it was perfectly acceptable to trade slaves which was, as her master kept reminding her, how he'd gotten her in the first place.

"You can't hide from me, girl! I own you! Now you get out here, or you'll get a whipping later."

That was enough for the girl. The last whipping she'd received nearly killed her. She didn't live much of a life, anyway, but it was better than nothing. Thoughts of freedom and happiness came to her occasionally, and she desperately grasped onto them; thoughts where she had a name and friends and family. Thoughts where she didn't serve anyone.

She inched out of the stables, arms wrapped around her tattered dress as she shook. "I'm here, master," she mumbled.

He found her in no time, grabbing a handful of her hair as he dragged her back to the house. "There's no dinner on my table, _slave_," he spat. "Why?"

The girl whimpered. "I don't… I didn't…"

"That's right; you _didn't_ make it. How many beatings will it take until you can finally get it right?" He threw her to the ground and booted her in the stomach. "_Answer me!_"

"None!" the girl screamed. She curled into herself, arms protectively over her head. "None, please, I'm sorry! It won't again, I swear!"

Begging wouldn't work; it never did. But still, she held onto hope.

Her master was breathing heavily, his dark eyes glaring at her with hatred. "I traded you for a bag of rice," he snapped. "Twelve years ago. You're just as useless as you were then."

As easily as if she were a piece of clothing, he grabbed her hair and hauled her to her feet. Roughly, he started shoving her toward the bedroom, kicking her and banging her into objects. She tripped, but he just hauled her up again.

It was useless to try and resist. He'd beat her, maybe throw his chamberpot at her, and then tell her to get out of his face until he needed her next. He was stronger than her, and didn't take kindly to resistance, so she just fell limp and braced herself for the pain.

But this time was different. As she was waiting for the first hit, he did something else. Something much, much worse.

The dress was old, and tore easily. Despite her squirming and screaming, the girl was soon naked, her clothes in a pile at her feet. She clawed at his arms, trying to get him to let go, but he put an arm around her throat and pulled her into his chest.

"Keep struggling, girl, and you'll regret it. I own you, so you'd best do as I say."

Choking, the girl kicked her legs, refusing to give up. The arm around her neck tightened, and she instead reached back and clawed his face.

With an angry yell, he threw her into the wall, where she collapsed in a heap, choking and spluttering. She tried to get up, but a boot struck the side of her head, knocking it into the wall. There was a ringing in her ears, but she barely registered it as the first fist hit her.

More followed, and she blocked them out as the pain spread until her whole body ached. He punched and kicked and threw her until he was satisfied, then grabbed her and shoved her face-down onto the bed.

"Try anything else and I'll break your neck."

She felt his heavy weight on her, and braced herself for the pain.

* * *

><p>Murtagh stared into the fire, watching it dance and sing. His sword lay against his side. Opposite, Thorn rested his large head on his front legs, eyes lazily closed. A small wisp of smoke rose from the dragon's nostrils, into the silent trees.<p>

They sat in a clearing at the mouth of a small cave; Thorn was too big to fit, but at the very least it sheltered Murtagh from the elements, and kept the fire hidden from curious eyes. There was a small stream down a hill on the side of the cave, and the faint whisperings of a waterfall could be heard if it was quiet enough.

How many years had it been now since Galbatorix was killed? At least ten. Ten years of freedom the king's insanity that he'd never really enjoyed. Ten years of hiding and avoiding. And in those ten years, what had the Varden accomplished?

Nothing.

Instead, after barely five years in control, the Varden themselves had been overrun, and the new king, Barthemus, was a simple man with simple demands; to slaughter the dragon population, and hang anyone who practiced magic. Now Murtagh not only hid from the Varden – or, what remained of them – but he couldn't go to the empire, either. He was exiled to a life of loneliness.

Poking a stick at the fire, Murtagh sighed. The remains of a rabbit sat at the edge of it, keeping warm, and he picked it up and tore a hunk off with his teeth.

Soon, they'd have to move. They'd been at the cave for over a week now, with no incident, but earlier that day Murtagh had happened upon a small band of the king's soldiers, scouring the forest across the river. It wouldn't be long before they found the cave, and Murtagh wasn't waiting around for that to happen. He wasn't sure if they were looking for him or for someone else, but that was a risk he wouldn't take.

_They will not catch us_.

Thorn was watching him, having woken up. His bright red eyes stared into Murtagh's brown ones, sensing his thoughts and worries.

_I know,_ Murtagh replied.

The dragon snorted. _Then do not worry._

_I'm not worried._

_You are always worried. We will find our place._

Murtagh scoffed, throwing the remainder of the rabbit into the fire. Thorn didn't understand; humans weren't like dragons. They were spiteful, unforgiving. The world would not soon forget what side Murtagh Kingslayer and his red dragon fought for. They would not forget the countless people slaughtered in the name of Galbatorix, and they would not forget that Murtagh was his right-hand man. "We have done too much evil to ever have a place," he said.

Thorn raised his head, stretching over to Murtagh. _Everything has a place; even us_.

* * *

><p>The girl waited until her master was asleep. His snores filled the room loud and obnoxious. When she was sure he wasn't going to wake, she crawled out of the bed and attempted to salvage her dress, gingerly pulling it on. It was torn and tattered, but it was all she had.<p>

Her whole body was aching and swollen; even her stomach hurt. She held back the tears, refusing to cry. Tears would get her nowhere, and she certainly wasn't giving him the satisfaction. This was her life, right here, and crying over it wasn't going to help; she'd best get used to keeping her master company every night.

Cradling her wrist to her chest, the girl crept out of the room, careful not to make any noise. As she passed the kitchen, she toyed with the idea of taking something to eat, but her master would definitely notice, so she kept going, out to the stables where her master's mare, Obsidian, was sleeping. She nickered softly in her sleep, her flanks rising and falling with each breath.

She was a beautiful horse, midnight black with feathering reaching halfway up her legs. The girl's master didn't appreciate the beauty of such a beast, instead using the mare for arduous tasks, neglecting her as much as he neglected the girl. It fell upon the girl, then, to take care of both her master and his horse. In fact, without her, they'd probably both be dead. Of course, her master cared more about the beast than he did about her; at least the mare had a name.

Sitting next to Obsidian, the girl absently stroked the mare's leg, thinking.

An idea came to her, a thought that was so horrid and repulsive she instantly rejected it. It wouldn't go away, though, and soon she was consumed by it. Would it work? Could she do it? What would happen to her? Did she care?

Rubbing her arm, the girl formulated a plan. She stood, glancing around the stables. A saddle and bridle sat, dusty and weathered, in the far corner. She fetched them and saddled Obsidian, who didn't even wake.

Rousing the indignant mare, the girl led her out of the stables, nervously glancing back at the house in case her master woke. She tied a loose knot with the reins on a pole in case the mare decided to bolt, and snuck into the house.

Heart pounded, the girl pushed away thoughts that what she was doing was suicide. She couldn't back out now. She would _not _live the rest of her life being raped and abused. Even death was preferable to that.

Her master was still snoring in his bed, sprawled out like a doll. She snuck up to him, fighting to control her breathing. If he caught her now, it was all over.

On the table next to his bed was a large dagger. Its blade was made of the finest metal, the hilt a smooth, polished dragon bone. She picked it up, grasping it tightly; it was lighter than it looked.

The girl was breathing heavily now. If she did it – and she _was _going to do it – how long until someone noticed? Until they came looking for her? Despite being a nasty drunk, her master was a wealthy, respected man. They wouldn't just let it go; they'd hunt her down like a deer.

_I'd rather be dead than his slave_, she told herself.

And with that thought in her mind, she plunged the knife through his neck.

His eyes snapped open as he let out a strangled scream, flailing around desperately. Spotting her, his hand shot to hers, wrenching the knife out of his neck in a spurt of blood. He blindly swung, slicing her forearm. His other hand flew to his neck to try and stop the flow of blood as he struggled to get up.

The girl stepped back, her eyes wide in horror. She'd thought he would die instantly, but he was still alive, still fighting to stay that way. Bile rose in her throat as she watched him slowly die.

He fell out of the bed, landing on his knees. The dagger slipped from his grasp as he grabbed wildly at the whole in his neck to try and stop the blood. His breaths were wet, ragged gasps as blood filled his lungs. His eyes rolled back in his head as he fell heavily on the ground, and his last breath left him.

Gasping, the girl took a tentative step forward, never taking her eyes off him. She nudged him with her foot to make sure he was dead, then knelt down to take the dagger. She wiped the blood on his clothes, and fell onto her backside.

He was dead. She'd killed her master. What would the king do if he found her? What would _anyone _do? But even so, she was free now.

The girl almost smiled at the realisation. From the small table next to her dead master's dead she grabbed his coin pouch. It was heavy and jingled with coins. She seized his cloak from the desk, throwing it around her shoulders, grabbed an empty pack and took a final look at the body.

He would hurt her no more.

She stole into the kitchen to shove the pack full with as much food as she could find. The storeroom was mostly fruit and vegetables, but she found some stale – but edible – bread. She didn't bother with any meat; it would go bad within a day, and she had no way to cook it. Finally, she grabbed two wineskins and rushed out to Obsidian.

The mare nickered in a tired greeting as the girl tied the pack and wineskins to the saddle. She carefully stowed the coin pouch, making sure it wouldn't fall out, and awkwardly pulled herself onto Obsidian's back.

She'd never ridden a horse before, but had seen it done many times. A gentle nudge on the sides to make the horse move, pull the reins back to stop, and side to side to turn. Simple.

The girl squeezed Obsidian's sides with her feet, and the horse began to walk dutifully. She contemplated a gallop, but didn't want to risk falling off. Instead, she tugged on the reins to turn the beast toward the forest, and they plodded off.

She didn't look back as they crossed into the forest, not even once.


End file.
